John's Story Facts
by Woodsea8885
Summary: Sherlock's shocking death causes John to re-examine the facts of their friendship.


**SHERLOCK**

AFTERMATH:

JOHN'S STORY ~ _FACTS_

John stared at the picture on the pub wall, raising the lager to his lips, but he neither saw the painting nor tasted the brew. It had been a bad day at surgery. A teenage boy had been hit by a cab not far from the clinic. The boy lay broken on the cold, cobblestone street; his blue eyes faltering with shock, his right leg twisted against nature. Blood gushed from the deep wound in his head, matting his brown curly hair. Regardless of the odds, John saved him, unlike another.

Three months gone and it still hurt like hell, the sorrow kept raw by what was said in the aftermath.

John felt the breeze from the opening door against on his back, recognizing the cackling laugh and grating voice he'd come to despise.

"So I said to him, 'I'm an investigative journalist, I don't make up stories'." Kitty Riley's next sentence ended abruptly. She had seen him.

John lifted his glass to drain it. Or order another, depending on what happened next.

"Well, if it isn't the infamous, Doctor Watson."

He sensed her abrasive presence beside him and ignored it.

"So how are you doing these days without your impressive benefactor? Did I say _impressive_?" Her tone was smug, presumptuous, full of herself. Her story on Sherlock's suicide had gotten her a promotion, along with worldwide notoriety. "I meant _imposter_. The imposter Sherlock Holmes."

Three months is a lot of time for a man to think. And during his sleepless nights, that's all John did: analyze the facts from every angle possible. Only when there was nothing left to tear apart did he sleep again.

"Would you like to give me an exposé on him now, John?" she taunted, giggling. "Give your side of the story of what the _real_ Sherlock Holmes was like?"

John turned: dispassionate, confident, and ready for battle. "What year was the Van Buren Supernova?"

Riley stopped giggling. "What?"

"What's the chemical component of blood?"

Bafflement replaced gaiety. "I-I don't—"

"How far can a bullet travel in a mile? 'Course we'd have to know the exact caliber of the gun to be dead-on accurate," John rattled off in rapid fire, "but since this is a discussion, we'll use a .35mm for an example. If a person looks up, is he lying or telling the truth? Almonds on a person's breath: a favorite snack or cyanide?"

Riley's eyes went steely. "What are you playing at?"

"You're a fake, Miss Riley. I'm a fake." John swept his gaze over the crowd. "Everyone in this room is a bloody fake. Everyone. We're all playing games." His eyes locked on hers. "But _not_ Sherlock Holmes. He was real. We look at someone and see what we want to see, hear what we want to hear. Smell, too. But Sherlock . . . he saw the facts."

"He _manufactured _the facts," she grinned conceitedly.

"Did he? Hmmm." John cocked his head, feigning thought. "Really? Biology, chemistry, physics, and technology are the nucleus of this our current world. Sherlock Holmes embraced that knowledge whole-heartedly." He saw her contempt re-firing.

"He thought the sun—"

"He thought the sun revolved around the Earth, yes, we've all heard that one," John charged on, loud, commanding. "The Earth-sun rotation didn't matter to Sherlock because it is a constant fact, a fixed state—therefore, useless. Not worth remembering. But chemistry, technology, etc. are _always_ changing, amidst hundreds of other things surrounding us. And what Sherlock Holmes didn't know, he would research. Or go to an expert. Discerning the facts can save a man, or put him to death. You didn't do enough research, Miss Riley. A man died because of it." John stood.

"Richard Brook—"

The raw nerve touched, John wheeled. "There never was a Richard Brook!" he shouted, slamming his hand against the chair back. "Not one who went to school with Sherlock Holmes anyway. It was a lie! A big, complicated scheme, a trap, orchestrated by Moriarty to discredit Sherlock! And you fell into it—_willingly_!"

Riley's face drained of color, her bravado razed.

"We _are_ the fakes, _not_ Sherlock Holmes. And the next time you address me—which will be, well, bloody never—it will be 'Doctor Watson'."

Leaving Riley dumbstruck, her mouth hanging open, gave John boundless satisfaction, but never more so than the boisterous applause that followed him from the pub.

Three months.

"Cabbie!" John waved.

Three months to review the details of Sherlock's cases that were within Lestrade's possession. Sherlock was gifted, but not talented enough to be in two places at once.

Sliding into the cab, John sniggered. Sherlock Holmes: stubborn, arrogant, boastful—and unable to keep his mouth shut when challenged! Several times, he had speculated how Sherlock would have set up one of his alleged crimes. Nope. Sherlock would argue. About something. With someone. Sherlock would make himself stand out even in a coliseum-sized stadium.

Could he have hired people? John had wondered. Those whom he called the Baker Street Irregulars, as well as others along that ilk and-or of dubious profession? The funny thing about that was, of those people John had met, they were all gentle, hard-working souls. Honest and law-abiding for the most point, if circumstances hadn't forced them to the borderline, and some just slightly over it. Sherlock had liked and respected those people. They were simply doing what they could to survive.

But Sherlock a murderer? Taking a life needlessly? Knowledge spurred Sherlock on. Trouble was you needed something to apply that knowledge _to_. For Sherlock, the sport was in catching the killer, not _being_ the killer.

"Cabbie?" John leaned forward. "I'd like to change my destination."

"Where to, sir?"

"221 Baker Street. I liked to have tea with my landlady, if she'll have me."


End file.
